


Monsters

by SamCatsOLD



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Again, Angst, Experimentation, Hurt, Kidnapping, Me being a horrible person, Memories, Monster Tom, Past Tense, What Is Wrong With ME, like seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-04 09:57:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10274300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamCatsOLD/pseuds/SamCatsOLD
Summary: Ooh! Mysteries! Except not because the tags and writing make it really obvious.Also, I'm a terrible person who doesn't know when to stop. Send help.





	1. Chapter 1

It was cold and dark and wet and branches kept smacking him in the face, but he had to keep going. He’d been careless and there was every chance that he wouldn’t make it. That he’d just be caught again and ruin all of his plans. He had to keep running. He had to make it.

When the trees finally fell away beside him and the lights and buildings came into view, he almost cried with relief. But he couldn’t. The last time he’d stopped to rest he’d almost been caught. He had to keep moving. 

The people who saw him on the way didn’t say anything, just stared. Which made sense, since he probably looked like death. He ignored the elevator and took the stairs two at a time. And yet when he finally reached the door, he hesitated. He had to think this over.

He had to promise himself that he would be visiting only for a moment. He would knock on, say hello, stay for an hour at most and leave. If he stayed for too long then he would be caught. And he couldn’t let that happen. He took a deep breath and, with trembling hands, knocked on the door.

* * *

Being kidnapped was not fun. Especially when you were pretty sure you knew who had kidnapped you. Not that waking up in an empty, circular room gave much of a clue. The main thing was that there was only one person with the motive.

The first few hours had been the worst. He’d lost all sense of time and had had no idea whether it was morning or night or if he was supposed to be hungry. So hungry. So very hungry.

Eventually he’d collapsed against the wall, sliding down and burying his face in his knees. After the initial shock had faded he’d begun trying to escape; his fingers were bloodied from where he’d tried to pry the metal panels from the walls. Once he’d exhausted every option other trying to dig through solid metal, he’d given up. There was nothing much he could do.

He’d thought about how his friends would react to his disappearance. Were they awake yet? Had they realised he was gone yet? What would they do once they found out? Maybe they’d look around for him. Maybe they’d call people, ask if they’d seen him.

He remembered feeling very cold back then; his hoodie was back in his apartment. Crouching in the corner of a room with cold metal pressing against his back was _not_ the best remedy for that. The gnawing hunger in his stomach also hadn’t helped.

Finally he had realised that sulking in the corner would not help. If he couldn’t break out using brute force – his fingers had only just stopped bleeding – then he would have to look for something else. If somebody kidnapped him, then that probably meant that they wanted something from him. Which meant they probably wanted him alive. And you couldn’t live without food. He would have to wait until somebody came to give him food and figure something out from there.

When somebody had finally brought him food, it was not how he had imagined it. Instead of something opening up to reveal a person with food, a hole had opened at the bottom of the wall with an audible clicking noise. He had been curious, of course, crouching down beside it, fear being the only thing stopping him from reaching out to it. After a moment a tray was pushed through with food and a glass of water.

He could no longer remember what the food had been, but he remembered throwing caution to the wind and wolfing it down, simply grateful for something to fill the growing hole in his stomach. And yet, when he was finished, he was still hungry.

After an eternity of pacing the small room; counting the panels on the ceiling over and over, he finally grew tired. He’d curled up in the corner of the room, stared at the opposite wall and ran through names in his head. If he had forgotten them, he definitely would’ve gone crazy in the weeks of torment ahead. Reciting those all-important names each night had been the only thing keeping him sane.

He had woken again in the small room and any hope that it had been just a bad dream had shattered. He remembered scrambling to his feet – bare, for he was stolen straight from his bed – and pacing around the room once again, running his hands along the walls in hope of finding some flaw, some defect, anything to give him hope of escape. But all that he had accomplished was breaking the newly-formed scabs on his fingers and staining the metal red.

After what felt like hours of silence, he had finally given in and screamed, punching the wall and relishing the pain that exploded in his knuckles. It was the only thing letting him know he was there, he was real; he existed. Because if there was no one to tell him as much, he could never be sure.

He had collapsed against the wall once again and stared at the floor. He was not going to cry. He would not cry. Would his friends cry? Would they be worried? Did they even know he was gone yet? He was not- he was crying. Why was he crying? He didn’t cry! He’d nearly died many times over and he’d never cried!

He’d never felt so helpless before, either.

He had had nothing to his name but the clothes he’d been wearing when he collapsed two nights before. He had been freezing and the hunger was still growing. It had been a while since he’d felt that hunger, and he hated what it meant. 

When the hole in the wall had opened once again, he had ignored it, instead sitting on the other side of the room and glaring at it defiantly. He was not some sort of trained dog. If whoever had kidnapped wanted something, they would have to come and get it.

Eventually he had fallen asleep in that position, waking only when he heard a loud grinding noise. By time he was conscious and on his feet, it had stopped, leaving behind only a man-sized hole in the wall. Curiosity and a need for answers had drove him through the hole and into the room beyond. A bathroom.

He hadn’t complained.

When he had re-emerged, the tray of food had been moved to the centre of the room. As much as he had wanted to ignore it, the ache in his stomach had won out and, once again, he had eaten it all. He had despised himself for his weakness, knowing that giving into the hunger just accelerated the process. And if he was right with his assumption, his captor knew full well what they were doing. 

After kicking the tray to an abandoned corner of the room, he had paced for a while before curling up again and counting names. It was becoming a little easier to bear the cold against him as he slept.

When he had next awoken, he had quickly noticed the missing tray and bloodstains, as well as the thin bandages around his hands. So his captor didn’t want him hurting himself. The first thing he had done upon realising this was rip the bandages off. This dislodged the scabs and once again sent blood trickling down his fingers. It burned, but he no longer cared.

It hadn’t taken long for things to go wrong after that. He’d punched the wall again until both hands were bloodied, digging his fingers into cracks in the wall without any clear purpose left. He’d screamed, called names; yelled insults to whoever was watching him. Before he could do much more damage to himself, he’d felt a sharp pain in his shoulder.

He’d yelped and fell to his knees, scrabbling aimlessly at the burning in his arm. Eventually he’d grasped something. He’d forgotten basically everything he’d ever learnt about first aid, and pulled whatever it was out without a second thought. By the time he’d recovered enough to focus on the object, his vision was blurring.

There had been a terrible, sick feeling in his stomach, but even that had not been enough to cancel out the rising hunger. The pain seemed to make it worse; his body seemed to think the change was already starting. But it wasn’t, so the pain that had shot through his body was for nothing, meant nothing.

The last thing he had seen before losing consciousness was a familiar red hoodie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh! Mysteries! Except not because the tags and writing make it really obvious.
> 
> Also, I'm a terrible person who doesn't know when to stop. Send help.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm... who should I torment today, brain? Tom again?

He bit his lip. This had been a bad idea; he never should’ve left, never should’ve come _here_ , the most obvious place for him to go. But he had to know if they were okay. Had to let them know that _he_ was okay.

He tasted blood; he’d bitten straight through his lip. He winced and raised a hand, wiping the blood away gingerly. It was at that exact moment that the door opened.

He saw a green hoodie, brown hair; he was vaguely aware of a small, fluffy creature leaning against his leg.

“Tom?”

* * *

He’d awoken in a different room, which, despite the possible danger, had been a surprisingly exciting realisation. He had just been glad he might finally get answers. And yet as soon as he had tried to sit up, a pain had shot through his body. He’d fallen back again, breathing hard.

At some point he had rolled onto his side, curling up with his arms wrapped around his stomach. How long had he been unconscious? Was he changing already? No. No, he had at least a day left.

Eventually the pain had faded, allowing him to breathe once again. He wasn’t sure how long he had lain there, regaining his bearings. When, finally, he had steadied his breath and convinced himself it was safe to move, he had gingerly began to stand. Once he’d found his balance, he had looked around, taking in the new room.

It was similar to the one he’d been trapped in previously, however it was rectangular and had a metal door set into the opposite wall. His first thought had been that he could escape. He’d walked towards it, fear of setting off another episode being the only thing that stopped him from running straight into the glass wall blocking him from the door.

Before, he had been in a room. Now he was in a cage. Perfect.

He’d spent a good hour running his hands along the glass, pressing against it, searching for any weak points. Eventually the ache in his hands had forced him to stop. After that he’d sat against the wall facing the door and waited. At least glass meant that he could see whoever was watching him. If they decided to.

He had found himself running over the names once again. Trying to remember anything to distract him from the gnawing hunger. It wouldn’t be long now. Some small part of him had been glad that he was taken when he was; he wouldn’t have to purposely shun his friends yet again.

His hands had been bandaged again, he had noticed numbly. Not that it would matter much. They’d be torn off again within a few hours anyway. It wasn’t as if he could control it.

Somewhere along the line he’d started wondering where he was. He had had a general idea, but it would’ve been nice to know specifics. Above or below ground? City or countryside?

England or Norway?

His head had shot up at the sound of the door creaking open. The half of him that wanted to the hunger to be gone had been hopeful that it was food; the half who wanted answers had hoped that it was _him_.

And it was. He had noticed the familiar things first: the red hoodie; the pale eyes; the freaking devil horn hair. And then those that were different had appeared to him: the blue coat; the scars disfiguring their face; the eyepatch; the… robot hand?

Just the sight of them had been enough to make his blood boil. His hands had tightened to fists, numb to the pain it had caused; a low growling had started in the back of his throat and the hunger had begun to grow to a slow-spreading pain. Every instinct had screamed for him to attack, to just change already and inflict as much damage as possible. But he hadn’t. He’d repeated names in his head again, fighting to stay calm. Getting angry would’ve just made things worse.

In the end he’d focused on the fact that they were supposed to be dead. A dead man couldn’t hurt you.

“Nothing to say to me?” They had asked in that stupid accent of theirs.

He had wanted nothing more than to yell at them, ask if they were proud; demand some sort of apology. But he had doubted that it would have much effect on a murderer.

“What do you want?” He had said instead, voice hoarse from disuse.

“Blunt as ever, I see.” They had sighed.

His eye had twitched. “You _kidnapped_ me.”

“Well I doubt you would’ve come here willingly.”

“You tried to kill me!”

“You shot me with a harpoon.”

“You blew up our house!”

“You blew up my giant robot.”

“You killed Jon!”

“Who?”

Something about that had jarred him into silence. Of course. They didn’t even know who Jon was; the neighbours had moved in after they had left. He couldn’t help but wonder how often that had happened; killing somebody before knowing their name. Sure, he’d done it multiple times throughout the various apocalypses, but at least he’d had a reason. 

He’d taken a deep breath and asked again, “What do you want?”

They had looked genuinely surprised. “To help you, of course.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You’re really that surprised?”

“You tried to _kill_ me! Why would you want to help me?” At some point he’d stood up, hands balled into fists at his sides. His head had started to ache.

“It’s because I _didn’t_ kill you that I want to help.” They had explained unhelpfully. “Surviving a blast like that… it just confirmed my suspicions.”

“Which were?” He’d growled, animalistic; it wouldn’t be long now. At least then he might be able to break the glass.

“That you didn’t find your ‘cure’.” A smile had curved their lips. “Really, Thomas, you were so adamant about it; I thought you would’ve tried harder.”

He had winced; he hated when people used his full name. Especially when they were people that he already hated.

“But, since you didn’t, I realised I owed it to you to help.”

“So what, you’re just going to give me a cure? You’re not that kind of person.”

“Oh no, there is no cure.” Their grin turned to a smirk. “I’ll simply teach you to control it.”

They had confirmed his fears; he had tried not to let it show. “Why?”

The smile fell from their face. They sighed, “Do you remember why I did what I did?”

“I’m almost certain you never told me.”

“We used to be friends, you and I.” They had looked almost reminiscent. “I offered you power and you accepted it.”

“Wh-what? I never-”

“You wouldn’t remember that, though, would you?” They’d frowned, seeming genuinely sad. “I had to use the memory eraser gun, otherwise you may have actually killed me.”

“But the memory eraser gun wipes _all_ of your memories.” He had been clutching a straws, wishing for it not to be true. “When Matt shot himself, he forgot who he was. B-but I still remember my childhood!”

They had looked oddly surprised. There had been a moment of silence before realisation had lit in their eye. “There may be two reasons for that. You see, the memory eraser gun had to be… programmed before use. I never actually tested to see what would happen if it wasn’t tuned beforehand.”

That… somewhat made sense.

“The other possibility… the memory eraser gun is harder to resist the weaker your mind is. You were strong, so only the memories I wanted to take were erased. Somebody with a weaker mind could lose any amount of memories.”

“Are you calling Matt dumb?” Since when had he cared? Or was it just because of who he was talking to?

“No. Somebody with a high intelligence could be very weak-minded, and vice versa. There’s no correlation.”

“But… I… you’ve _always_ hated me! I’ve always hated you!”

“Not always, Thomas. We were allies once. I offered you power and you took it. But for whatever reason it only made you resent me.” They had seemed thoughtful. “So I tried to teach you to control it. But you started trying to run off. So I erased your memories and introduced you to Edd. You know the rest.”

He’d been speechless, hadn’t known what to say.

“And so, once again, I’m offering you the chance to control the power I gave you.” There had been a gentleness to their tone. “From the look of you, you’ll need it very soon.”

As if on cue, the pain in his head had doubled; he’d winced and buried his head in his hands, not caring enough to appear tough anymore. The only person watching had been the one who’d caused the pain in the first place.

His breath had come fast; he had been unable to get enough air. He’d fallen to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor and breathing hard. The pain had been focused in his head and the small of his back, but it had slowly spread to his limbs as his bones began to shift. The hunger had finally faded, only to be replaced with an agony that had rendered him unable to even move.

He had been vaguely aware of something moving out of his line of sight – not a high bar, considering he had been staring at the ground – but hadn’t cared enough to look. Not that he would’ve been able to. The pain had been too bad. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, could barely breathe…

And, finally, he hadn't been able to resist.

He had changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to do it, I swear! My brain made me do it!


	3. Chapter 3

Hearing his name spoken in anything other than a Norwegian accent was enough to startle him into a momentary silence. He gaped for a moment before stuttering out a, “H-hello.”

“You’re alive!”

And suddenly he was being hugged, and the human contact was enough to make him freeze up, enough to stop him from fighting back when he was pulled into the apartment; enough to make him forget his promise completely.

* * *

He had awoken in a bed. A plush mattress beneath him, a blanket covering him. He’d almost cried; it had all just been a dream. He hadn’t been kidnapped; _they_ were still dead. It had all just been a horrible nightmare. That included every last ounce of pain that came with the change.

He had sat up suddenly, only to yelp and fall back again as his head collided with something. He’d groaned and rolled onto his side, covering his head with his hands. It had still been sore from the change, which hadn’t helped at all.

“I suppose that’s one way to let me know you’re alive.”

His eyes had shot open; he’d sat up again, pressing his back to the wall and pulling the blanket up and around him. _They_ had been sitting at the end of the bed, rubbing their forehead and wincing. They’d lost the coat, revealing that the right arm of their hoodie was missing. Without the sleeve to block his view, he’d been able to see that it wasn’t just a robot hand. Their entire right arm was gone, replaced with a metallic red one.

Scars covered half of their face and neck; he had seen clusters of scars poking out from beneath the tattered remains of their right sleeve.

“Hey. It’s rude to stare.”

He’d shifted his gaze back to their face, disfigured and with one eye presumably missing.

“What do you want?” He’d choked out, pressing back against the wall.

“We’ve been over this. I want to help you.” They’d sighed. “What do I need to do for you to trust me, Thomas?”

“For starters, stop calling me ‘Thomas’.”

“Okay then.”

“Second…” He’d paused. Asking to be released would’ve been pointless, and they’d already explained why he was there. “How are Edd and Matt?”

They’d blinked – winked? – in surprise before answering, “Last I knew, they were safe and hoping that you were too.”

“Am I?”

“What do you mean?”

“You were very vague. ‘Teach me to control my powers’. Can I expect to be safe? Will it be more or less painful than changing?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“Because the only other person I know who has your power is dead.”

“You turned me into… _this_ even though you knew it could kill me? I thought you said we were friends at the time!”

“We were.” They’d stated plainly. “I warned you of the danger, but you were more focused on the ‘power’ part.”

He’d released the blanket and buried his face in his hands.

His memory was getting fuzzy. What had happened? He’d been in the cage, talking to them, and then-

“What did I do?” He’d gasped suddenly, noticeably surprising them. “I-I changed! Did I do anything?”

“You mostly just clawed at the glass in an attempt to kill me.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Not really.”

“Just… how long will learning to control my powers take?”

“I’d say a month at least.”

“A month? Edd and Matt will think I’m _dead_ by that point!”

“And so they’ll be even happier when you return.”

He’d glared at them for a moment, unconsciously shifting his gaze to the scars on their face. He’d asked suddenly, “Why do you wear an eyepatch? Is your eye really that damaged?”

“Hmm? Oh, not really. It just tends to unnerve some of the soldiers, so I cover it up. Normally I wouldn’t care, but I need them to be as efficient as possible right now. There are some soldiers who still don’t believe I’m actually alive.” They’d explained with a roll of their eye.

“Why are you still wearing it around me, then?”

“You probably wouldn’t trust me as much if you saw my eye right now.”

He’d resisted the urge to facepalm, instead gesturing to his own lack of eyes.

“Fair point.” And so they’d taken off the eyepatch.

While they were taking it off, his gaze had shifted to their robot arm. It was solid red metal, with chinks in its armour at each joint. It didn’t shudder or make a noise as he had expected it to; its movements were fluid, as if it were a real arm and not a replacement.

He’d looked at their eye, then, and was suddenly understanding as to why it unnerved some people. The sclera was irritated and red; the pupil and iris had faded, forming a single, glassy orb. The scars around it had cut through part of their eyelid, making their eye look a lot wider than it really was.

“Thoma- Tom, you’re staring again.”

“Hmm? Oh, sorry.”

They’d gone silent for a moment before replacing the eyepatch and standing up, moving towards a door. The room was small and dark, with just the bed and two doors – one leading to escape, the other most probably a bathroom.

“Wait.”

“Yes?”

“I… why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Come back. Blow up the house; kill Jon! You got nothing out of it.”

“I would’ve gotten the robot if you hadn’t blown it up. And… I didn’t get nothing.”

And with that cryptic message, they’d left, closing and locking the door behind them. He had thought that it was too easy; he’d broken down multiple doors in his time. But as he’d tried to stand up, he’d felt a pressure on his ankle.

Of course. He was tied to the bed. Why not?

Although that did throw into question the use of the bathroom. Was it a bathroom? It didn’t really matter at that moment. He’d fallen back on the bed, pressing his hands to his eyes and trying to ignore the pain that had been throbbing in his head.

At some point he must’ve fallen asleep, because when he had awoken once again, light was filtering in through a tiny, previously unnoticed window high up on the wall behind him. He’d distractedly noticed that the pressure on his ankle was gone; he’d been too preoccupied with the man pointing a gun at him to care.

He had quite literally been threatened at gunpoint to get out of bed.

* * *

After being led down a series of hallways, taking far too many turns to remember – he was pretty sure they’d gone in a circle once or twice – he had been ushered into a room. Brick walls, high ceiling… glass dividing it in half. And, of, course, the door that locks as soon as you walk in.

He’d spent a couple of minutes testing the glass before opting to just sit down and wait instead. Which had turned out to be a bad idea because it had felt like hours before something had actually happened.

Eventually they had emerged on the other side of the glass; they were wearing the coat again, the collar turned up to hide some of the scars on their neck.

“So, what’s the glass for?” He’d asked.

They’d regarded him with amusement for a moment before answering, “My safety.”

“I promise I won’t try to murder you.”

“You have no control as a monster.”

“Which is why I’m here, apparently.”

They hadn’t responded that time, instead stepping forwards, about a foot away from the glass.

“Uh… what are you-”

“Change.”

“What?”

“Change.”

“Okay, first, it _hurts,_ and two, I don’t know how!” It was at this point he’d decided to stand up, stepping away from the glass. “I-it just kind of… happens.”

The emotion he’d seen in their eye the previous night was gone. “At what point during the change do you lose control?”

“What? Uh… I don’t know! I guess… maybe when the horns grow in?”

“That’s very early on.”

“Well, I’m sorry I’m too busy trying not to bleed out or, worse, kill my friends!”

“And can you stop yourself from attacking them?”

“I… well, no…”

They’d sighed, “So what exactly makes you change?”

He’d had to think about this. “Well… usually about once a month I change regardless. For the time in between… intense emotions, I guess?”

“Such as?”

“Uh… fear, pain, sadness-”

“When was the last time you changed due to emotion?”

“Around… three months before you came back.”

“And what caused it?”

“I kinda got punched through a car.”

They’d stared at him, confusion obvious in their eye.

“Well, the neighbours got a nuclear-powered satellite somehow, and both Edd and Eduardo – one of the neighbours – got superpowers for a day. I think Edd has some leftover but I’m not sure.”

“Why did they have a nuclear-powered satellite?”

He’d just shrugged.

“Well, I doubt we’ll be able to replicate getting punched through a car.” They’d looked thoughtful for a moment before asking, “What do you feel before you change?”

“I start feeling really hungry… and then I get headaches and it kinda feels like my spine is breaking?”

“The hunger is most likely due to how much you grow during the change. The headaches would be because of the horns and your eyes; the pain in your back due to you growing extra bones.”

“I always wondered that. I actually grow new bones?”

“How else would you control the tail?”

“I don’t know. I mean, after everything I’ve been through, magic doesn’t sound so crazy anymore.”

“I suppose not.”

There’d been a moment of silence before they’d turned and walked over to a door on their side of the glass. They’d disappeared through it, leaving him alone again.

He’d just stared for a moment before huffing and sitting down again. He was getting tired of solitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually looked up images of damaged eyes for this. Tord's is based off the least gory one I could find. I regret _everything._


End file.
